


Goodnight, Sweet Prince.

by God1643



Series: Micro-Stories [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Suicide, stunts, suicide note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God1643/pseuds/God1643
Summary: Harry's a bit of a wild man.Sadly, not enough to keep the wildness alive.





	Goodnight, Sweet Prince.

Harry got a real kick out of all this. He didn’t exactly like his long hair, but feeling it tickle the back of his neck was just another excellent reminder of precisely how violent his flying was.

He did things no one dared to do, cracking records for top speeds, turning speeds, wearing out breaking charms meant to last decades in a few matches, honing his skill in ways people only dreamt of.

A Wronski Feint was named after a German-Lithuanian Quidditch player, a female seeker named Brigitte Wronski, famous for daring stunts in her youth.

Even she recommended pulling out of the dive at fifteen meters or more from the ground, so as to ensure yourself and your opponent do not fall into the ‘Pride Trance’, a dance of death where two Seekers fall so deeply into the chase, neck and neck, that they seriously injure themselves by not taking into account oncoming obstacles.

Harry knew well the Trance, but he just ignored it.

That’s right.

He ignores it, completely. He knows the dangers involved, he knows the accidents that have occurred over the years. He just doesn’t care.

That’s why he can do his crazy stunts.

So when people come up to him asking why he does the things he does, why he pulls the wild stunts, he simply says; “I don’t care for fear. I’ve had enough of it over the years. Now, I don’t want to be afraid. If I can stare death in the eye, the cold hard ground coming at me and not blink, then I’ve won, no matter the score.”

“That’s an awfully cynical opinion for someone as young as you.” Rita Skeeter had returned once. Harry had given a sickly sort of smile, the kind one gives when they don’t believe in happiness.

“Youth is just a state of mind, Miss Skeeter. I graduated from it a long time ago.” His eyes had glimmered, a buried sadness screaming to leave, held in check by iron chains of guilt.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Rita had said. “Truly, I am.”

“I know, Miss Skeeter. Have a nice day.”

Polite to the end.

Harry Potter was found dead three days later, a golden snitch clutched in his mangled right hand, his shattered broom in his left, and a suicide note taped to his chest.

“I stared the ground down. Death stared back. She’s beautiful, you know? The kind of beauty you know would be bad, but you can’t help but go after anyways. I don’t regret it. If it all went to plan, the love of my life is in my right hand, and the other is in my left. Goodnight, world.”

“Goodnight, sweet Prince.” Replied Rita at his funeral, laying a soft, purple-lipstick clad kiss on his forehead.


End file.
